


Sphinx

by athena_crikey



Series: Second Sight [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: AU, Blindness, Drama, Episode Retelling, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The papers believed it to be the work of some foreign faction. Morse had a frighting idea that it might be something much madder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Three

Morse listened to the radio as he dressed. The old wireless set had been cheap and its reception was poor; even the strongest stations came through with a background of rustling static. International news filtered in: America, West Berlin, Vietnam. Then the local happenings – a new factory opening in Cowley, a local victory in the rowing regatta, a murder. 

Morse looked up, fingers stilling on smooth silk. A local woman had been found strangled, a handkerchief in her mouth. His fingers traced the tight noose of his tie and he scowled, then tightened it and switched off the set. 

He’d always had far too much imagination. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

The warm weather was lasting well into October this year; Morse met it thankfully – there was no extra money in his budget for a proper winter coat or gloves, and the car coat provided little shelter against strong frosts and biting winds. 

The cane skittered over the pavement as he walked from the bus to the George Street office, the sound of its passing a quiet noise like the whickering of a flagpole’s wire against the metal pole. News of the local woman’s murder had already made it into the papers; even over the traffic he could hear the hawkers calling the headlines from across the street by the station. Oxford didn’t stop, not for one murder. 

He made it into the office just as the raised hands on his watch told him it was 8:15, to be met by Mrs Thrumming’s gruff, “Good morning.” He returned it more pleasantly. He had no paucity of experience in dealing with disapproving matrons, and he had realised some time ago he would likely never live down offering the Resource office’s braille printer at no cost to the local operatic society to print a few of their brochures. 

“Hullo, Morse.” A young, bright voice and a hint of peppermint. Chewing gum, indulged only when Mrs Thrumming was absent.

He smiled and dipped his head. “Miss Mann.”

“We’ve just had the latest edition of Merton’s exam papers in; they’re locked in your desk.”

“Thank you; I’ll see to them right away.” 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Usually while he worked he listened to BBC 3 on one of the office’s small transistors. But the news today was shot through with the leading local story: woman strangled. 

Inspector Thursday had refused to give the details of Rosalind Calloway’s death, but the papers hadn’t been so kind. _Prima Donna Hangs in Cowley Cells_ , according to Miss Mann, who had read him the story. 

There wasn’t any connection between the two deaths – how could there be? But when he heard _woman, strangled_ only one thought came to mind: Rosalind Calloway’s throat being crushed by her bedsheets, her beautiful voice silenced forever. 

Morse went home the long way that evening, skirting the newspaper sellers and newsstands. 

\------------------------------------------------------

He almost didn’t turn on the radio the next morning, but the idea of giving into his own imagination was too much; he turned the dial defiantly and pulled his suit from its hanger. 

Unsurprisingly, there were more updates on the strangling. The victim was Evelyn Balfour, a local wife and mother who worked at a bingo hall. And, sensationally, an anonymous tip had reported the discovery of a message chalked on the door of the empty train cargo coach where she had been found. _Un bacio ancora._

Morse straightened, turning towards the radio which was now translating the Italian for the audience, “One kiss more.” BBC refused to speculate on what this meant, but just reporting it would be enough to feed the frenzy: crime of passion, foreign lover, Mafia connection. Any number of possibilities presented themselves.

Morse, however, stopped by the cabinet holding his records on the way to the door. Brushed his fingers over the smooth surface, feeling the grain of the cheap wood. Even with the braille titles he had clipped onto the sleeves it would take more time than he had to find _Otello._

And anyway, it had to be a coincidence. Surely.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The day passed uneventfully, as most did. More gruff from Mrs Thrumming, more sympathy from the office girls. Morse worked in silence again; he had no interest in the radio’s puerile suggestions and insinuations. 

He didn’t go out of his way that evening to avoid it, though, which is why he heard of the second death before the following morning. The newspapers were reporting it as possibly suspicious, police hedging their bets. An aged lady found dead in her home after a visit from a mysterious gentleman. 

By the next morning, the news was positively singing. A second message, _Ici, loin du monde réel_ had been found and the tone for the murders set: Local women murdered by foreign gang. 

Morse turned off his radio in disgust, the cuff of his sleeve popping open. A cufflink fell with a tinny clatter and he cursed, stooping and searching for it, hands brushing over the flat’s uneven floorboards. 

A couple of minutes later he still hadn’t found it, and he was near to missing his bus. Caught up in a whirlwind of irritation and ire he grabbed his second pair from the dressing table, dropped them into his pocket, caught up his jacket and coat and ran out of the flat. 

It was only when he was sitting on the bus, cane collapsed at his side, that he remembered the radio broadcast. _Ici, loin du monde réel._ It was from _Lakme_ , he was sure of it. Far surer than he could be of its implications. 

He got into the office a few seconds before 8:15, ignoring Mrs Thrumming’s cold greeting, and hurried into his room. He had flipped through his rolodex to the card with Inspector Thursday’s name and number printed on it which he himself had punched by hand when the office had been slow. 

Only when he had that reassurance in his hands did he slow to really think. What could he possibly tell the man – and more to the point how much would Thursday, who struck him as quick-witted but with his feet very firmly on the ground, care to hear?

He tucked the card slowly away and started his work, turning back thoughtfully to it every now and then when his mind wandered from the proofing.

It wasn’t until his lunch hour that he made the call.

\-----------------------------------------------------

“Thursday.” The voice on the other end of the line was terse, word bitten out through a tight jaw. Morse drew a long line across the top of his desk with his fingertip, the cool smoothness of the wood reassuring. There was a faint coat of dust gathering; the char lady cutting corners again. It wasn’t unusual; most people assumed he wouldn’t notice a little extra untidiness. In fact, he noticed it more acutely. 

“Inspector? It’s Morse. I’m not sure if you remember, but –”

“Of course I do,” interrupted Thursday, tone taking on a slightly more genial leaning. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about these deaths. I heard on the radio about the two women found with notes; _Un bacio ancora; ici, loin du monde réel._ ”

Thursday made a low sound of agreement, and Morse continued, more hesitantly now.

“I just thought… it might be useful for you to know. Both the lines are from operas. The first from _Otello_ , the second from _Lakme_. I don’t know how the second woman died, but they reported the first was strangled with a handkerchief in her mouth. In the opera, Otello strangles his wife Desdemona, believing her to have given a handkerchief to another man.”

There was a moment of silence, Morse’s nail skating along the edge of the desk. Then: “Desdemona, you said?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Morse, politely.

“And the other opera you mentioned – is there a murder in that?”

“A suicide. The main character is an Indian princess who kills herself by eating the leaves of the Datura plant.”

He could hear Thursday’s fingers tapping on the desk, a thoughtful tattoo. “I think I’d like to know more. Can you come in?”

Morse frowned. “I might manage it briefly; I’m on my lunch hour.”

“I’ll send a car for you.”

Morse had a brief image of Mrs Thrumming’s reaction returning to the office to find he had been escorted away by a policeman; he shuddered delicately. “I’ll be waiting on the kerb.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

The man who came to pick him up was called Strange; it hardly fitted him – he seemed very much the average copper. A little slow, a little tongue-tied, and much too fast a driver. Morse swayed from one side of the car to the other as they shot through traffic, Strange apparently doing his utmost to shave seconds off the journey. 

The station was an old stone building; he could hear it in the echoes that rang down the narrow corridors. It teemed with life; coppers hurrying through the halls, visitors arguing and pleading, even a dog trotting on clacking nails. The sort of place that could strangle a man with its vivaciousness. Morse let Strange guide him, his hand on the PC’s shoulder.

Upstairs the offices smelt of smoke, boot polish, chalk and papers. He was led through a large room full of men and typewriters and phones to the Inspector’s door.

“Come,” called Thursday in response to the constable’s knock and Morse pulled free and advanced on his own. 

It was always uncertain, entering somewhere for the second or third time. After a few more visits he would have an accurate sense of the space, know if the furniture was regularly moved and whether Thursday was the type to unreliably leave things about to trip on. But now he had only his memory of the room’s proportions from his one other visit. A pair of chairs four steps in, and beyond them the Inspector’s desk.

He found the chairs easily, the laminate floor between them and the door clear, and seated himself. Behind him the door closed, and the racket beyond became just a background murmur. 

“I appreciate your coming,” began Thursday. “I know you don’t have long, so I’ll get down to brass tacks. What you heard on the radio is true; what we’re not releasing is that the second victim was poisoned, and the pathologist is of a mind to suspect a mixture including Datura.”

Morse felt a shiver run down his spine. “Then it is related. To the operas, I mean.”

“Mad though it sounds, it’s the best clue we have so far. We wouldn’t be liable to tie them together otherwise. As theories go it’s incredible, but it has the beginnings of a disturbing kind of pattern to it.” Thursday leant forward on his desk, the wood creaking. He had a musky scent: pipe tobacco and aftershave. “Tell me a bit more about these operas.”

Morse did. Sketched out the plots of _Otello_ and _Lakme_ for the Inspector in a few quick sentences. 

“And have these been performed in Oxford recently?”

“Not to my knowledge. We had Tosca and the Barber of Seville last year. The year before that was Tristan Und Isolde and Norma. But they may have been on in London.” London, where there would be thousands and thousands of patrons to search through. He heard Thursday sigh. “Anything else that connects them?”

Morse ran his fingers down the line of his chin, considering. “Well, they’re both love stories which end unhappily. But the same could be said for many – most operas, really.”

There was a knock on the door; Morse turned slightly to half-face it. A throat was cleared, and then a thin reedy voice said, “Thursday, do you have a moment?”

Two men entered the room; the air currents shifted and he heard their footsteps. One smelled of expensive cigarettes, the other… Morse frowned. Not a smoker, nor wearing heavy scent. Just a more subtle hint of something faintly sweet. A tickle of honey? No – he caught his lip between his teeth to stop himself shaking his head. Something else.

“Excuse me please,” said Thursday, passing him; in the doorway he heard a Dr Daniel Cronyn being introduced. A psychiatrist who took an interest in such killings and was volunteering his services. 

Thursday received the introduction politely. “Thank you, sir. As a matter of fact I’ve my own expert. Mr Morse helped us with the Mary Tremlett case, and he’s come forward with some information you might like to hear.”

Morse, so introduced, stood and turned, producing his hand to shake and letting the two men take it. They were introduced to him as Bright – a thin weak hand belonging to the reedy voice – and Cronyn – a very strong grip and a scent like treacle. Morse frowned; no, still not quite right.

“What information is that?” asked Bright, sounding impetuous. He was a short man; Morse pictured a little bantam, strutting about the yard for all the world king of his farm.

“There’s a chance these deaths are connected by operas, sir, or at least dressed up to appear so. Morse?”

Morse licked his lips and spoke. Explained the strangling and the handkerchief, the poisoning and the Datura. Afterwards there was only silence. And then,

“A novel theory, surely,” picked out Bright in a tone laced with scepticism. 

“Fits the facts, sir,” said Thursday, stoutly.

“So does a Don from a languages department, but we have not turned over those faculties,” retorted Bright. He, at least, hadn’t realised Morse’s shortcoming. The treatment of men like Bright was always different, once the secret was out. They placated Morse like a child, as though his condition conferred imbecility. 

“Perhaps Dr Cronyn could give us his opinion.” Thursday redirected the conversation smoothly, and Morse turned to the man who had until now remained silent.

“The perpetrator of these crimes clearly exhibits a profoundly disturbed psyche,” began the psychiatrist.

Morse snorted and Cronyn went on, a little more defensively, “But what might be less obvious to you is that he will also be high-functioning which, I regret to say, will make him very difficult to apprehend.”

“But not impossible,” said Thursday.

“Thankfully such cases are rare,” was Cronyn’s reply. “But gentlemen, you’re confronting a mind unconstrained by regret, right and wrong, good and evil. So far as he’s concerned, we’re just prey. Kine, reared to slaughter.”

The man irked him, Morse decided. Something in his tone spoke, not of respect but of a belief that this man was beyond them, an undefeatable foe. 

“He will be caught,” said Morse, low and sure.

“How?” There was almost a hint of laughter in the doctor’s voice, or perhaps it was just disbelief. “Unless you catch him red-handed over another corpse, there is hardly anything to go on.”

Morse set his chin, frowning in the face of near-mockery. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

There was a pause. Then Bright broke in with facile politeness. “Thank you, gentlemen. Perhaps, Dr Cronyn, you would care to address the men?”

Their footsteps faded and Morse turned to Thursday, scowling. “Are such men really of use?”

“We can’t all count on bright lads to show up with the solution to our problems,” said Thursday, lightly. “Will you stay to hear him out?”

“No. I have to get back. You know where I am; if there’s anything more I can help with…” he left the invitation open-ended.

“I’ll have Constable Strange take you back.”

Strange appeared a moment later and the two of them slipped out of the back of the forming crowd, Cronyn and Bright conferring on the opposite side of the room. 

\--------------------------------------------------

Morse was working on the proofs for a translation of Plato’s _Laches_ when he heard Mrs Thrumming’s tart voice raised in ire, accompanied by a softer, soothing tone. Then heavy steps on the floor, and a knock at his door. “Mr Morse?”

Constable Strange. Here, in the office. Morse resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands; Mrs Thrumming would make his life hell for this. “Yes?” he said instead, his voice sounding pinched to his ears.

“Inspector Thursday sent for you, sir. Says there’s something he needs you to look at. Urgent-like.”

Morse ran his thumb over his watch; just past two. He could make up the time tomorrow. “Very well, if it’s urgent.” He shut his drawers, locked them and pocketed the key, and stood. Retrieved his coat and cane. “Lead on, Constable.”

He could hear Mrs Thrumming’s terse breathing as he passed his desk, and kept his face perfectly plain. “Mrs Thrumming.” She didn’t answer him.

Outside a car was waiting; he got in and the constable started the engine. A strong, responsive roar. “What does the Inspector want?”

“He’s out looking for a missing suspect, sir. Found something he thought you could help with in his house.”

“You think him connected to the other two murders?”

“Not for me to say, sir.”

Morse rested his chin in his hand. “I see.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

They drove a fair way, out of the city’s crawling traffic and petrol fumes to the country – quiet, rough roads and the smell of dirt and muck. They came eventually to stop somewhere deserted and silent; Morse could tell that even from inside the car. “Where is this?” he asked tensely, hand resting on the door’s armrest. He had hardly left Oxford since losing his sight, and then only to go home. In town there was always someone to give directions, always the kerb to follow and buildings to act as anchors.

Here, out in the country, there was nothing but dark emptiness. Once lost he would have no hope of finding himself again. 

“Looks to be some sort of work yard. There’s all sorts of machinery – grinders, a pump, a cement mixer. The sign says Pet Food Purveyor; I suppose it’s a slaughter yard.”

Morse shivered. He’d been brought out alone to the middle of God knows where, and his destination turned out to be a slaughter yard. He opened the door, grip tight and chilled on the handle, and forced himself out. The sun was shining on his face but the breeze carried the smells of damp sawdust and animal muck; a visceral, base mixture. 

The constable led him through the yard and into a house – he didn’t need Strange to tell him the place was abandoned. There was a scented fug of mould and must and rotten food, and under it something odder – a cold, dusty kind of smell. Morse frowned.

He was led down a set of narrow stairs and into an unfinished basement; the walls radiated the cool of the earth. Here the smell was stronger and he could recognize it now – cement. 

“Morse,” called Thursday, his voice echoing slightly in the basement’s cavernous interior. “Over here.”

He was led to the Inspector, and a second man smoking a cigarette. “Thank you for coming. This farm belongs to Mr Nimmo – the man who was to meet the second victim at the time of her death. He’s nowhere to be found, but there’s a turntable here with a record – _Aida_ , it says. It was playing when we turned on the breaker down here.” There was a pause, and then the crackle of a record playing. It picked up mid-aria, and it took Morse only a few seconds to recognize it. He felt his chest tighten, throat starting to close. 

Morse gave a sharp wave of his hand, the music falling silent. He licked his dry lips, and croaked out his words. “As you say, it’s from _Aida_. The last thing Ramades sings, before he’s interred alive.”

“Then there’s another murder we haven’t discovered yet.”

Morse turned his head, the dark confines of the basement a mystery to him; it was no more than endless black, lending no sense of proportions or shape. “I think I may know where. There was a cement mixer in the yard, the constable said. And down here, the smell of concrete. Is there…”

“A new brick wall,” finished Thursday grimly. “There,” he added, utterly unhelpfully. “Sergeant, fetch that mallet.”

The smoker disappeared further into the basement, and then there was the tap-tap-tap of the mallet against bricks. Hard and first, then more carefully so as not to take down the wall on whatever lay inside. After a moment it stopped all together, just the quiet scrabble of brick against mortar. 

“Hellfire,” breathed someone, with a disturbed kind of reverence. 

“Call it in,” said Thursday, returning to his side. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here a while longer,” he added, taking Morse’s arm and leading him away from the newly-opened tomb. He could smell it, the reek of rotting flesh seeping out through the new hole; it turned his stomach. He tried to focus on Thursday’s hand on his sleeve, on the cool air on his face, on anything but the smell. “Morse, there’s something else,” announced Thursday, as though the discovery of one body had not been bad enough.

Morse stiffened. “What?”

Thursday came to a stop a few yards away. “There’s a wall here – tickets, programmes, newspaper articles all pinned up. And your name, cut out of newspaper headlines.”

“My name?” His throat felt dry as the Sahara, rough and grainy. 

“MORSE, it says, all glued together. Is there anyone you know – from your choir, or…?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No. No. No one who could do this. Why would this maniac care about me? It makes no sense.”

“It does to him,” said Thursday, grimly.

\-------------------------------------------------------

With all the men caught up in the discovery of the body, there was no one to take Morse back to Oxford. He stayed in a quiet corner of the basement, feeling forgotten and unwanted. A host of new arrivals trotted through: the coroner’s men, forensic scene men, photographers, and the pathologist. The doctor was a fussy little man with an educated voice who spoke with curt assurance regardless of his audience. He postulated the death was due to thirst, having been walled up alive and left to die. Morse’s mind sprang to _The Cask of Amontillado_ and he shuddered. 

He already hated this house, but now he was coming to fear it. The smell of dry crumbled cement and mould and decomposition, the cold air that had been the last breaths of a dying man. The darkness which no longer meant anything to him seemed suddenly hyper-present, to be closing in on him; he shuddered and pressed himself up against the cool stone wall. 

“Mr Morse, isn’t it?” 

Morse turned, heart leaping in his chest; he hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching. The voice was familiar, and as the rush of shock faded he frowned. “Dr Cronyn?”

“Yes. Mr Bright asked me along for my opinion. I was just about to speak to the others. But I would value your insights?”

Morse crossed his arms over his chest. “I have none; the man must be mad. Why turn something beautiful into something so perverse?”

“But all the operas you believe related to this case are stories of loss and death, aren’t they? The celebration and decoration of violence, death, murder. Perhaps he seeks to turn his deeds into something more than simple killings?”

Morse drew back, simultaneously surprised and offended by the allegation. “Opera is opera, murder is murder. You can’t dress one up in fancy clothes to turn it into the other. Do you mean to suggest he thinks he’s… creating? Making something beautiful, something great?” He found the notion revolting, and frightening. For a man to be mad enough to believe that were possible…

“Possibly. I’ve been thinking, since your suggestions earlier today. I once knew a young man who had killed his mother; deeply disturbed, although his case was hushed up. He was a musical prodigy, obsessed with operas and operettas. Keith Miller, his name was. He was an Oxford boy, as I recall. If this were his doing, I believe him capable of reading a deeper meaning into these deaths.”

“That the victims were a wronged wife? A princess? A soldier?” asked Morse, sarcastic in his dismissal. 

“Or perhaps Miller – or the killer – sees himself taking the role of honour. They all died to maintain it, didn’t they?”

Morse took a slow, uneasy breath. This man, his theories. They seemed laughable, but he spoke with such quiet conviction – as though he believed them himself. As though he understood them. From across the room someone hailed the doctor, and he heard Cronyn turn. “We should speak again,” he said, stepping away. Morse listened to him disappear into the darkness, and realised he was sweating.


	2. The Fourth

Like a piece of flotsam swept out with the tide he was taken back to the station when the crowd of officers left the scene of crime, Thursday taking charge of him once they reached the station. With his hand on Thursday’s broad shoulder, Morse followed the inspector through the rabbit warren that was Cowley Station, down corridors, around turns and up a flight of stairs. “I’ve something to look into; I’d appreciate it if you would wait for me,” Thursday said, depositing Morse in his office. Morse didn’t take the opportunity to refuse and a moment later he was gone.

There wasn’t much to do in the inspector’s office; Morse spent the time trying to correlate any similarities between _Otello, Lakme_ and _Aida_ – apart from the death of the heroine there wasn’t much there. He was beginning to wonder whether he’d been forgotten when the door opened, letting in the background chatter from the main room. Thursday entered alone, tread heavy on the smooth floor; he partially closed the door behind him and came to stand beside Morse’s chair.

“Morse? While we were out at Nimmo’s farm a copy of a musical score was dropped off at _The Mail_. It’s in Russian; we’ve just had the translation back. _The Snow Maiden._ Ring any bells?”

Morse ran his fingers along the chair’s arm, face tightening. “It’s an opera by Rimsky-Korsakov,” he said slowly, drawing up the details in his mind. He had never heard it performed, didn’t even own a recording – had only heard excerpts played once on the radio. He could still remember the final hymn, sung following the death of both hero and heroine.

“Someone dies, presumably,” said Thursday, darkly.

“The Snow Maiden herself. She melts as the sun rises.”

There was a pause, the only sound that of the typewriters from the outer office. 

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it? You’ve found another body,” said Morse apprehensively, fingers tightening on the chair arm.

“No.” And then, more reluctantly, “A young girl’s gone missing. Debbie Snow.”

Morse’s heart constricted in his chest as though grasped by a clenching hand. “You think it’s related – that he’s taken her? Why?”

Thursday sighed, sounding tired, confused. “There was a note found at the scene, in the girl’s shoe. Red ink on a musical score. ‘No alibi err badly. Nearby libra idol.’ Mean anything to you?” 

“It sounds like nonsense. Or a code made to seem that way.” Morse shook his head, pulling his fingers through his hair roughly. A code? Or a game, taunting the police. Who was this maniac? “How is idol spelt? IDOL or IDLE?” he asked, raising his head. 

“OL,” replied Thursday, immediately.

“Any strange punctuation or capitalization?”

“All capitals. No punctuation.”

Morse’s frown deepened as he screwed his knuckles against his temples. “Let me think about it, please.”

“I have to see to the girl’s parents. You can stay here, if you like.” He heard the swish of Thursday’s suit fabric as he turned.

“Inspector?”

“Yes?” The footsteps paused near the door.

“Dawn. What time is it, this time of year?” He should know, should remember. But it had been five years since he’d seen the sunrise, and his memory was fading.

“About six,” answered Thursday kindly. He stepped out and closed the door behind him, leaving Morse alone in silence, his mind flying through the possibilities. Skipped letters, decoding squares, puzzle clues. So many permutations, and hardly more than twelve hours until dawn. 

\------------------------------------------------

It was two hours later that the answer suddenly struck him as he was working through letter combinations, like a confused mix of noises suddenly resolving into a single tune. NOALIBIERRBADLY, NEARBYLIBRAIDOL. BODLEIAN LIBRARY.

Morse stood and stepped out into the outer room. It was quieter now, men out searching for the missing girl presumably. Morse stopped at the first desk he came to but no one was there to greet him, nor at the next. No one hailed him and after a moment of standing, alone and abandoned in the office, he unfolded his cane and tried to retrace his route through the station. He found the stairs easily only to get mixed up on the lower level after a wrong turn down a corridor smelling strongly of coffee and thick fatty canteen food. He righted himself and found the exit, hurrying out into the fresher autumn air.

It was easier to trace his way back to the bus stop he’d taken to visit the station a few weeks ago; Morse’s memory was keen and accurate – it had been a boon at first in his college years, becoming more important still as his sight faded. He only waited five minutes before a bus arrived headed for Oxford; he boarded and asked to be called for the Bodleian. 

It wasn’t a long trip; he sat on the edge of his seat, cane folded in his lap, waiting. Wondering what to do. He had no authority on which to act, nor ability to act with. He could only hope that whatever clue the killer had left there would be easily found and surrendered to him. By that time, hopefully Thursday would be back in his office. 

There was a comforting, familiar hush in the Bodleian, and the dusty smell of parchment he remembered from his own days in Lonsdale’s library. It would have filled him with nostalgia, if not for the urgency churning in his stomach. 

He had only been in the Bodleian a couple of times, but he remembered the tight, tall stacks and the golden dust-flecked light pouring in through the immense windows. Remembered the beauty and the age of it; it hardly seemed the place to be hunting a murderer.

He was met at the entrance by a librarian; by the sound of it a wizened, elderly man. His creaky voice came from down near Morse’s sternum. “May I help you?”

Morse nodded once. “I’m looking for a copy of a musical score. The Snow Maiden.”

“Would that be Rimsky-Korsakov?”

Morse opened his coat against the library’s fug. “That’s right.”

“Just one moment.” There was the sound of the old man hobbling away, and then just the distant shuffling of papers and turning of pages. It was more than a minute before he returned. “You’re in luck. A new set of scores was just delivered to Mr Miller this morning.”

Morse froze. “Miller. Keith Miller?” he asked, chest tightening. His hands and skin suddenly felt cold, body drawing its blood inwards in preparation for action. 

“Yes, that’s right. He’s a regular reader.”

Morse’s heart was thrumming wildly in his chest, sweat beginning to rise on his back. “Where is he now, do you know?”

“Here, I believe.”

“He’s here, now?” Morse felt his chest aching, and realised it was because he had stopped breathing. He forced himself to let out his breath and take another. 

“Yes. Shall I show you?”

“No,” said Morse quickly, desperation beginning to flood through him. He couldn’t confront a killer – it would be child’s play to escape him. If escape was what the madman had in mind. “Where are your phones?”

“Over by the entrance. Here,” the librarian took him out of the main door and into the foyer area to a row of phone booths. 

“Thank you.” He heard the man leave and picked up a phone, ringing through the number he remembered from earlier in the day. Thursday’s line. 

“Hello?”

“Inspector – I’m at the Bodleian. He’s here. Keith Miller, he’s here right –” 

Without warning strong arms grabbed him from behind. Morse started to shout, hot panic searing through him, and a handkerchief was clapped over his mouth and nose with a strong chemical smell. He tried to slam his elbows backwards but his body was already failing him, limbs growing alarmingly heavy. He felt a bright, sharp pain in his side and groaned. His senses blurred together into one confused, nauseous mess, and then the world faded away.

\------------------------------------------------------

Morse woke up in hospital. It was the smell that alerted him. He had spent more than his share of time undergoing diagnostic tests and examinations; the antiseptic smell wasn’t one he could forget. 

“Mr Morse, I believe,” said a quiet, wry voice from beside him. 

Morse tried to raise himself up and felt a dull tenderness in his lower left side; he fell back. “Who’s that?”

“My name’s DeBryn. Max DeBryn. A home county pathologist. Fred Thursday asked me to look in on you.”

He recognized the voice – or more the tone – now. “You were at the slaughter yard,” Morse said, trying again more carefully to sit up and managing to prop himself higher on his pillow. “What’s happened?”

“Someone caught you with a chloroform rag and gave you a nice gash to the side. Nothing to worry about; it’ll knit together in a week or so if you rest,” said the doctor, matter-of-factly.

“Rest?” He remembered the library now, remembered his panic. And then, with a sharp twist of his stomach, remembered what had brought him there. He stiffened, repressing the urge to grab for the man’s arm. “The girl – Debbie Snow. Have they found her? How long have I been out?”

“Several hours; it’s getting on for eleven at night. The girl’s still missing. They found another clue near the Bodleian – they’ve been working on that.”

“What is it?” demanded Morse. 

“Best leave that to the police. If our mystery killer had decided to stab rather than to slash, I would presently be getting better acquainted with your anatomy than either of us might care for,” said the doctor, repressively. 

“If we can’t solve it, it’ll be a little girl with whom you’re ‘getting acquainted,’” spat Morse, ire rising like a tidal wave. “I’m no stranger to hardship; I won’t expire so easily.”

“No, I imagine not. You didn’t lose your sight until rather recently; is that right? Stargardt’s, was it?”

Morse stiffened, staring blindly at the man. “You know,” he said, a little surprised. And then, irritably, “Thursday told you.”

“In fact yes, he did happen to mention to the hospital that their patient was blind,” returned DeBryn in a rather unimpressed tone. “He’s been worried about you – has called every couple of hours for a check in.”

Morse shrugged. “No one likes consultants dying, I imagine.”

“Or young men taking inordinate chances,” replied DeBryn, tartly. “Your independence is laudable, but you might just value yourself a little more highly. You have nothing to prove.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m trying to save a girl’s life. Will you let me, or not?”

There was a long, terse silence. And then, reluctantly: “‘Some coppers have no brains. All coppers are bastards. Therefore.’ That was the message.”

Morse frowned. “Therefore what?”

“It wasn’t spelt; it was represented by the logical symbol.”

Still frowning, Morse lay back. Another anagram? It didn’t seem likely; too long, and why bother with forming a logical equation only to reorder it? He needed more information on how to solve the equation – or on the thoughts behind the man who had written it.

“Doctor?”

DeBryn stirred. “Yes?”

“I have to see someone. Could you take me?”

\-------------------------------------------------------

“You were right,” he told DeBryn on the drive. “Stargardt’s. How did you know?”

There was a drop in the engine’s hum as DeBryn shifted gears, and then it picked up again. “It was a guess, certainly, but not a difficult one. You were clearly sighted for most of your life – it’s evident from the way you move your eyes and adjust for eye-height from voice so adeptly. There aren’t many common illnesses that cause blindness without any other outward sign of deformity. Stargardt’s is the most common, ergo…” he fell silent, guess explained. 

Morse let his hands curl in his lap, sitting straight-backed against the leather seat. “I had lost a good deal of my central vision by the time I entered university. In the end, I lost all of it before I finished. The supports and resources in place weren’t sufficient for me to complete my degree. In retrospect, I suppose I should be proud I made it as far as I did, but at the time it just seemed… a betrayal. To be abandoned like that, thrown out by those I thought were there to help me – it’s not something I want ever to see again. Not helping to catch this murderer when it’s something I can do… it’s unacceptable,” he said, with finality. 

“Your integrity does you credit. But surely it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more cautious?”

Morse rested his head against the cool glass of the window, eyes closed. “Sometimes my life feels so full of caution it’s as though I’m drowning in it. I’m tired of the road most often travelled.”

\---------------------------------------------------

DeBryn dropped him off on Cronyn’s step, Morse refusing his offer of accompaniment. After a quick round of knocking Cronyn opened the door to greet him despite the hour. 

“I need your help,” Morse said, without prelude. 

“You’d best come in, then,” returned the psychiatrist, sounding surprised. Morse, stick already unfolded, followed him through a narrow hallway into a larger room heated by a fire. He could hear it crackling behind him, heat wafting over to the leather chair Cronyn offered him. The room smelled of it, the sweet smell of damp wood mixed with the acrid scent of smoke. 

“A girl’s been taken; he’s leaving clues. Games,” spat Morse, leaning forward. “The first was an anagram leading to the Bodleian. The second… I don’t know what it is. ‘Some coppers have no brains. All coppers are bastards. Therefore’ – using the logical symbol.’”

There was a pause, the wood of Cronyn’s chair creaking as he re-adjusted himself. “Well, it’s a Modus Bocardo syllogism. A category of logical argument – as you had already deduced. Two propositions, one major, one minor. And the ‘therefore’ symbol is the clue.”

“Some coppers have no brains… all coppers are bastards… therefore some bastards have no brains,” solved Morse, working it out. And then, sighing, shaking his head. “It has to be more than that. It has to give us a sporting chance, else where’s the fun in it?”

“Well, whatever else it is, as an exercise in bamboozling the police it’s brilliant,” commented Cronyn. Again Morse felt a hot spark of anger – for all that he seemed to understand the killer, Cronyn’s sympathies lay too close to him. Perhaps that was why he understood so well – but surely that was impossible? No sane man could understand this sort of evil. 

“I doubt Debbie Snow would see it that way,” replied Morse.

“It really matters to you, doesn’t it?” Cronyn didn’t sound surprised, or impressed. He sounded bored. It fuelled Morse’s anger further, the searing waves of it cutting through him and setting his side to aching. Cronyn picked up again before he could retort. “Don’t get me wrong – it matters to me to. But with you, it’s… a personal connection? Someone lost, alone out in the wide world?”

For an instant Morse felt the pounding of his heart like a hammer beating at red-hot iron, felt the sparks of it showering his brain. DeBryn and his wry concern Morse could tolerate. This peering, hungry desire to seek out and reveal the weakness in men’s hearts – it turned his stomach. “This isn’t about me.” He stood, shoving the chair back so harshly its legs caught on the carpet and it nearly toppled over. “Thank you for your help.”

“Morse…”

But he was already gone. Out into the hallway, and then out the heavy door onto the cold steps beyond. It was only then that it occurred to him he had no idea where he was – had never bothered to ask DeBryn for the address he was being taken to.

“Morse,” called a familiar, deep voice and he turned towards the street. Thursday, over a humming engine.

He stayed still for a moment, feeling the heat of his irritation fading into the cold air. Only then did he step towards the inspector, cane skittering on the sidewalk. “Did you find what you wanted?” asked Thursday. “I’ll drop you off at your flat; get in.”

Morse stood with his hand on the door, fingers resting on the window’s metal frame. “I can’t go home,” he protested, “I haven’t solved it yet.”

“Morse, it’s not your job to solve it. That falls to us. You’ve already gotten us further than anyone expected; that’s enough.”

“That’s why I have to keep on,” argued Morse, stepping back from the car. “I can’t stop now – I’m the only one who solved it before. What if I’m the only one who can solve it now? At dawn, the girl melts – and if he intends to bring that about by fire, or –” he swallowed, too horrified by his run-away thoughts to continue. 

There was a moment of silence, just the two of them on the empty street. It must have been dark by now – very dark, probably; he wondered how clearly Thursday could see him, if he could see the determined set of Morse’s jaw or the fear in his eyes. After a moment, Thursday sighed.

“Did you learn anything?” repeated Thursday, slowly.

Morse shook his head reluctantly. “I know what the puzzle means, but it’s no kind of answer.”

“Then I’m taking you home. You need to rest – you could have been killed earlier today, and then the maniac would have had his fourth victim.”

“No,” said Morse, with a sudden illumination, “he doesn’t want to kill me. That’s not in his plan – or at least, not yet. Doctor DeBryn said he could have done it easily, but he didn’t. Because it doesn’t fit with whatever message he’s trying to send, whatever sick fantasy he’s acting out.”

“I can’t take the risk of having you hurt again,” said Thursday, softly. “You’re in no position to defend yourself, and I –”

“I’m not a martyr to my blindness,” snarled Morse, the thousand everyday irritations his disability caused him suddenly flaring up into a molten river of anger. Every act of condescension, every unnecessary kindness, every lost cufflink and misplaced pen and bus schedule/book/newspaper he couldn’t read – all of it simmered up and boiled over. 

“I never said you were.” Thursday’s voice was mild, calm. 

“Then don’t try to protect me from it – I don’t need…” he trailed off, his own words suddenly striking him.

“Morse?”

“The Bocardo prison,” said Morse, slowly, feeling his fingers brushing against the answer and frowning as he tried to clasp it. “The martyrs were kept there, before they were burned.”

“That’s right.” Thursday sounded puzzled. “What about it?”

“The puzzle, the clue Miller left – it’s a Bocardo syllogism.”

“The old Bocardo prison was destroyed, but the cell door survived – it’s on display at St Michael at the North Gate,” said Thursday slowly, consideringly. 

“Exactly.”

He heard the car door open. “Get in,” said Thursday, grimly.

\---------------------------------------------------------

At Thursday’s insistence Morse waited in the car while the police descended on the church. Even from there he could hear the relief in the voices of the other scene attendees when the girl was brought out by Thursday, alive and unharmed. He sighed, leaning back against the car’s leather seats. It was past midnight now; they had made it with only a few hours to spare. 

_He_ had only just made it, his aching side reminded him. He let himself relax, tension easing out of his body; he just needed a minute of rest. Just a minute.

\----------------------------------------------------------

“Morse? Morse, are you alright?”

Morse startled into wakefulness, the inspector’s voice in his ears. “What? Yes, fine,” he replied thoughtlessly, without assessing the pinching tenderness in his side. 

“I thought I could let you kip a bit longer, but we’ve had an urgent call. Can I drop you back afterwards? Or I can have one of the PCs take you home…”

Morse shook his head, resisting the urge to rub his face. “No, it’s fine. I’ll come.”

“It’s Doctor Cronyn,” said Thursday, voice black. “I’m afraid it isn’t good news.”

\------------------------------------------------

What Morse remembered afterwards was the smell. The sharp bitterness of the acid. The sickening, thick bloody mixture of putrefaction – melting bone, skin and muscle. The acrid smell of the fire, long since burned down to smoking ashes. 

“Aqua regia, by the smell,” diagnosed Doctor DeBryn, sounding sombre. 

“Melted,” choked out Thursday’s sergeant from the corner. “Like the Snow Maiden.”

Morse looked up sharply. “Then Debbie Snow was only ever a game, to distract us from his real target.”

“Looks that way,” replied Thursday, grimly. “Although why one and not the other… surely Debbie Snow would have made a better Snow Maiden?”

“Cronyn thought the victims were chosen purposefully, because somehow they matched the story the killer is trying to tell. Perhaps something connects them which you haven’t yet discovered.”

“Cronyn was seeing Philip Madison; Grace Madison’s nephew. As far as we know now, that’s the only connection between him and any of the victims – we’ll need to look into Evelyn Balfour and Ben Nimmo more carefully. Perhaps they too –”

Morse looked over towards the inspector, suddenly struck by the names. Thursday trailed off, seeing his expression. “Their names. Evelyn, Grace, Ben, Daniel.”

“What about them?” asked the sergeant.

“It might be nothing, but he’s used word games before… it’s the lines on a musical staff. EGBDF. So far we’ve had EGBD. Evelyn, Grace, Ben, Daniel.” He ticked them off one by one on his fingers.

There was a pause, the only sound in the room the quiet hiss of the fire’s ashes settling. 

“It sounds mad,” said Thursday at last. “But no madder than the rest of it. And as you say, it does fit. Which would mean the final victim’s name will begin with F.”

“If I’m right,” agreed Morse, with belated caution. Thursday sighed.

“You have been so far, lad.”


	3. The Fifth

Something about being in the room with the dead Cronyn – beside a man with whom he’d been speaking only a few hours before – set a chill running through Morse’s bones. He didn’t object when Thursday insisted on bringing him home, even going so far as allowing the inspector to escort him up to his flat. 

“It’s not much,” said Morse, too tired to really feel self-conscious about the tiny abode. It was clean and had what he needed; right now, that alone was enough. Thursday took him in and investigated the contents of his fridge and cupboard while Morse called in to excuse himself from work – an injury requiring bed rest, easily confirmed by a doctor if necessary, he reported to the offended Mrs Thrumming. 

He had just sat down on his bed and discovered the searing pain that caught him in his side when he tried to bend to remove his shoes when Thursday reappeared from the kitchen, old floorboards groaning beneath his steps. 

“You ought to take better care of yourself,” said Thursday, voice coming from down low. A moment later his shoe was tugged on; the inspector was undoing the laces. 

“Doctor DeBryn said something similar. I’ve never been much good at listening to advice,” he said, ruefully. “It doesn’t mean you have to take so much trouble with me. Hardly anyone else does.”

There was a rustle of fabric from Thursday, which Morse interpreted as a shrug. He sounded thoughtful. “You don’t strike me as the type who needs validation of his work to appreciate its value.”

Morse looked away. “Perhaps not.”

“Then that’s something to be glad of, at least. There’s few enough laurels waiting even within the police ranks, never mind for civilian consultants.”

“I have no aspirations in that direction,” said Morse dryly and Thursday rose, clapping him on the shoulder and nearly making Morse jump. It set his side to burning, and he tightened his jaw against the pain.

“Good. I appreciate your help Morse, but best to make things clear. There’s not many as would do something for nothing.”

“If there are any who would let a killer run lose, they’re not so much better than he,” replied Morse. For a moment there was just silence, then a soft sigh.

“You don’t take the easy road, lad, do you?”

“Never yet.” 

Another pause, Thursday stepping back and looking about. “It looks as though you have everything you need. If we come on anything new, I’ll inform you.”

Morse nodded vaguely, now having to work at not folding his arm over his side. Thursday made his way out of the flat, unguided, and shut the door behind him.

Morse lay down carefully, favouring his left side. It was aching in earnest now, and he had been discharged too hastily to fill the prescription for painkillers he’d been given. He closed his eyes instead, and tried to sleep.

\----------------------------------------------------

He was woken late in the day by a call from Thursday, reporting on the autopsy: Cronyn had already been dead when the acid did its work, likely of a morphine overdose – he showed signs of being an addict.

Morse frowned, remembering now a trip to the hospital years ago – being sedated for a test of his vitreous humour. Remembered the nurse breaking a phial of morphine on the metal tray beside him, the faint sweet smell of the dripping fluid. 

It had been morphine Cronyn smelt of. If Morse had realised it sooner – he shook his head. It would have led nowhere; use of sedation was perfectly par for the course for a psychiatrist. It would have rung no bells. 

“Tomorrow we’ll go out to his house, see if there’s anything more to be found there. DeBryn says you ought to be on bed rest; I can phone you if we find anything,” finished Thursday.

Morse hung up the phone without protesting, hand lingering on the smooth Bakelite. He was afraid, he realised. Afraid to know what new horror tomorrow would bring.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Morse called in sick for the second day in a row; Mrs Thrumming sounded singularly unsympathetic and for a moment he thought she would ask for the doctor’s note he had mentioned the day before. But in the background the second phone rang, and she cut off the conversation with an irritated rejoinder. 

He had finished his breakfast and cleaned the dishes when the phone rang; he dried his hands on the dishtowel and answered it.

On the other end was a blaring wall of sound; it took an instant for Morse to recognize it. Tosca’s aria from the end of the second act: the death of Scarpia. The music swelled with the emotional climax of the piece, and then the phone cut out. 

Morse put down the receiver slowly, then dialed Thursday. There was no answer.

He was just putting on his shoes when the phone rang again; this time, he approached it with hesitation. Picked it up warily, the receiver loose in his grip.

“Morse?” It was Thursday, speaking against a background of utter silence. “We’re at Cronyn’s house. There’s signs that someone’s been kept against his will, and photos. They’re not Cronyn, Morse. Not the man we knew.”

“Then who –” Keith Miller – the flash of insight struck him dumb for a moment. The man Cronyn had sent them all haring after, the man he had nearly met at the Bodleian. Keith Miller – I’m the killer. “It’s him,” whispered Morse. “The man posing as Cronyn, Keith Miller, whoever. It was him all along.”

“Like as not you’re right. There’s an old file here – one of Cronyn’s psychiatric records. It’s for a patient named Mason Gull, who was locked up in the looney bin for killing his mother.”

“There was no Keith Miller,” said Morse, feeling a cold swell pour through him. “That was just another game. His past – the boy murderer – it was Mason Gull. _He’s_ Mason Gull.”

“There’s more,” continued Thursday, grimly. “Details on the case, the trial – Gull’s obsession. The judge was named Madison, the witnesses Nimmo and a Mrs Tate with her daughter Evelyn. Our Evelyn Balfour, presumably. He was arrested by an Inspector Foxley. He’s going after everyone connected with the case, Morse.”

“F for Foxley. Inspector, he just called me, he –”

“What?” exploded Thursday. “Why didn’t you say – what –”

“It was just a record. An aria from Tosca; the death of the chief of police.”

“Then we need to find Foxley. I’ll call you back.” The line went dead. Morse hung up, walking slowly to his door to put his hand on the latch. But there was nowhere for him to go, nothing for him to do. 

He walked back to his bed and lay down. Bed rest, the doctor had said. But what on earth was he to do, alone with just his thoughts for company?

\----------------------------------------------------------

The phone ringing woke him from his doze; he sat up blearily, then went over to answer it. “Morse? We’ve found Foxley. He died years ago. What if the target is someone else? We found a pamphlet for a musical performance at Alfredus college today; Grace Madison’s nephew Philip is playing. Which means his sister Faye is sure to be there.”

“Faye Madison,” said Morse, slowly. For some reason, it didn’t seem right. Gull had already killed one of the Madisons, a stand-in for the judge who had sent him down. But Alfredus college…

“It could be; it would explain why he played Tosca,” said Morse, uncertainly.

“Why?” asked Thursday, sounding confused.

“Alfredus is home to my choir – the Oxford Scholars’ Choral Association. TOSCA.”

“Well, we’re bringing out all the men – if he’s there, we’ll find him.” 

“Thursday,” called Morse, to catch him before he hung up. “Floria Tosca – she kills herself by throwing herself from the battlements of the castile. If it’s her death he’s aping, he’ll throw Miss Madison from the roof.”

“Christ,” muttered Thursday, and rang off. Morse sighed, and wandered back to sit on his bed.

It _could_ be Faye Madison, certainly. It explained Tosca, and there was a connection. But Foxley had fitted so much more perfectly, seamlessly into Gull’s tortured revenge plot. 

_They all died for honour_ , he had said. Certainly Tosca had. But every quote, every musical excerpt had been from the death Gull had copied out into real life. And it wasn’t Tosca’s finale he had played. It was Scarpia’s. 

Scarpia, who had been stabbed to death in his office. 

If that were true, it might simply mean that Faye Madison was to be killed by a knife, not a fall. Except again, Gull had gone to considerable effort to match the victims to their operatic counterparts. A wife under suspicion of unfaithfulness, a renowned woman from India, a man who lived by the deaths of others. Cronyn’s fit least well, and that seemed mostly convenience – few operatic heroes or heroines burned to death or were otherwise fatally disfigured. Why then cast a young, innocent woman as Scarpia The Corrupt?

If not Faye, though, who? His only clue was F – not very helpful.

F, and perhaps someone associated with the law, with the police.

Morse sat bolt upright, barking his shin on his bedside table. Fred Thursday. He had substituted victims before – Grace Madison for her husband. Why not Fred for Foxley?

He ran back to the phone, dialing Thursday’s number in such a hurry that he mis-dialed and had to try again. There was no answer. Calling 999 seemed unlikely to get him very far – he couldn’t imagine the operator believing him, much less acting in a timely fashion. 

Instead he grabbed up his cane and wallet and ran out the door, neglecting his coat entirely.

It took him nearly half an hour to get to the station; it would have been much brighter to call a cab, but that brainwave hadn’t struck him in time and the mid-day bus schedule was uneven at best. 

He made it up to Thursday’s office without a guide, thankful for once that he was easily recognized and passed without question. The outer office was nearly silent; as Thursday had said, all the men had been called out to deal with the threat to Faye Madison’s life. The non-existent threat. 

Scorpia died in his office. If Morse could just warn Thursday first… he opened the shut door and stepped through into the silent office. 

It was difficult to say how he knew Gull was there. Perhaps just a hint of his scent, perhaps the near-silent whisper of his breathing. But the moment Morse stepped through the door, he knew he wasn’t alone. He fell back against the door, which closed behind him with a bang.

“Gull,” he whispered, reaching for the handle.

“How gratifying,” said Gull patronisingly; Morse could hear his smile. “A city’s worth of policemen on the case, and the only one who managed to solve the puzzle wasn’t one of them.”

“They’ll figure it out. They managed everything else.”

“No, you did. It was you at the Bodleian, you with the hint from the Bocardo syllogism. If I had known sooner I was to have such a match, I would have prepared something special for you.”

“Four murders isn’t special enough?” demanded Morse, voice near to breaking. “Turn yourself in, Gull. You’ve gone too far in coming here; they’ll catch you on the way out, whatever happens.”

“My disguise was sufficient to fool them on the way in,” commented Gull, unruffled. “No. It’s a pity, you know. I could only find your first initial, but it was enough. If only it had been F, you could have been a part of something so much greater. Something that will be remembered long after the pitiful doings of this station, of the rest of the pathetic lives in this city.”

“You’re mad. You’ll never get away with it – killing Thursday in his own office? It’s insanity, Gull. They let you out once, don’t revert.”

“They let me out once, and _they will do so again_. You think I can’t fool them? I fooled this whole station into thinking I was Cronyn, Cronyn’s patients into believing I was a locum. I have a talent, Morse. For making things other than they appear.”

“I have a talent for seeing what’s really there,” spat back Morse, hotly. “And what I see is a miserable, self-involved little worm taking lives to make himself appear bigger than he is.”

There was a pause, and then Cronyn laughed: a dry, barking laugh. “Very good. The blind leading the blind. But I’m afraid today you’ve led them all right off a cliff. And yourself, the leader, tumbling down into darkness.” He was stepping closer, and Morse heard the quiet swish of metal being drawn against metal. He pressed himself back against the door, hand on the handle. He had no weapon – his cane was designed to be light, hollow, and he had no idea what Thursday kept on his desk. 

“If you kill me, you’ll ruin the plan,” said Morse.

“Yes. I regret that, deeply. But _I want it_.” He sounded hungry, excited. Morse’s heart was racing, thrumming pulse making his side ache. His mind was running in tight, frenzied circles: what to do, what to do, what to do? Panic was flooding in, white-hot desperation making his muscles tense, his body huddle up preparing to leap. Leap where? For what? He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe – just had to move. _Now._

Gull shouted and he dodged forward, barely avoiding the chairs and jamming his thigh painfully on the sharp corner of Thursday’s desk. He scrabbled around behind it, tossing Thursday’s chair out into Gull’s path and falling backwards, leg throbbing. He landed hard, scrambling away, and came up against something cold and heavy. Softer than a wall – some piece of furniture. Gull was walking towards him; he could hear the steps on the linoleum. 

“La commedia è finita,” pronounced Gull, eagerly. Morse tried to pull himself up, leg and side aching; he made it onto the arm of the sofa but already he could smell Gull – sweat and soap and blood.

“Oi,” shouted a voice, from the far side of the room. Morse tumbled backwards, picking up a pillow as he went and throwing it sideways at Gull like a discus; he heard Gull curse as it caught him in the face. Then men were piling into the room, grappling with him.

Morse scrambled off the couch and away, running into a coffee table before making it to the far corner of the room, panting. He felt drenched with sweat, muscles shaking. Morse heard Gull being dragged out, still raving, and then the shutting of the office door. His legs gave out under him and he slumped down, arms wrapped around his chest. He felt cold and sick, adrenaline churning his stomach.

“Morse? Morse?!”

“I’m fine,” he said, tiredly. “I just… just need a minute. Please.”

“You can have as many as you like, lad,” said Thursday, sighing with relief.

\------------------------------------------------

He was checked out by Doctor DeBryn, at Thursday’s insistence, and pronounced fine on the whole but in need of more rest and fewer fights with mad killers. 

“I’ll be taking him right home,” the inspector assured him, and DeBryn departed, grumbling. 

“Thank you,” said Morse, more glad of the doctor’s departure than the promised ride; he had already lived through enough poking and prodding by doctors to last a lifetime, however well-intentioned they might be.

“I want you to come for dinner one night,” said Thursday, as he escorted him out, Morse’s hand on his shoulder. “Meet the family. You would enjoy it.”

Morse wondered what on earth he had done to give that impression. “Thank you, but I couldn’t impose –” 

“Morse, it’s not an imposition, it’s an invitation. You look like you could use some good meals in any case. And a chance to get away from that little flat of yours for a while,” he added.

Morse reflected on his quiet, dark flat. On the shelves of records waiting for him. Records which, at the moment, spoke to him of murder and violence and little else. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I might like that.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The internet is not agreed on what in fact morphine smells like - most likely depends on dilutants and/or manufacturing process. Either sweet or very bitter, apparently. So I took my pick.


End file.
